


timelapse

by deadlybride



Series: kink bingo fills [12]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: 5+1 Things, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, First Time, M/M, Non-Traditional Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-18
Updated: 2018-09-18
Packaged: 2019-07-13 21:28:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 13,480
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16026323
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deadlybride/pseuds/deadlybride
Summary: Dean's life, growing up as a halman.





	1. 1984

**Author's Note:**

> written for the 2018 SPNKinkBingo, filling the 'ABO Dynamics' square.
> 
> This is a slightly different version of a/b/o than you might be used to. Fair warning. :)

Not long before Dean turns five, he's sitting quietly on the couch in a big strange house. He doesn't know the people who live here, but they've been very nice. It's snowing outside, and they still have most of their Christmas decorations up. A Santa sticker clings to the big square window in their living room, and Dean's been carefully fiddling with the corner of one of Santa's huge black boots, where the film is lifting up a little off the window.

"Dean, honey? Oh, there you are. Okay. Marty's back with the clothes, do you want to try some of these on for me, sweetheart?"

Mrs. Gallagher is a nice lady, but she's not very much like his mom. Short and round, and her hair in big stiff curls piled up on her head in a real bright red, kind of like Santa's coat. She's old, and Mr. Gallagher is too, and their kids are all grown up–two boys, two hals, two girls. Mr. Gallagher said they were trying to field a hockey team. Dean's never played hockey.

"Come on, honey," Mrs. Gallagher says, beckoning, and Dean knows he's supposed to be good and so he slides off the couch, stands in the middle of the living room between Daddy's unmade cot bed and the fireplace. It's a big bag, printed with a stamp that says GOODWILL in fading blue letters. Dean's pretty good at reading. Mom was teaching him, before. How to sound things out.

He rubs one socked foot on the other as she pulls out all kinds of stuff. A puffy purple coat, green overalls with a flower on the front, a frilled hal tunic with blue tights underneath. Snow boots printed with clouds. Sneakers that are a pretty light blue. Kind of like some he used to have, before the house burned up.

He feels like he's in the dressing room at the store, like when they went to Sears that time and Daddy went off to look at the tools while Mom put outfit after outfit over his head. Her belly was huge and so they barely both fit in the dressing room, but she messed his hair up and told him he looked pretty, and he'd said, he remembers, he'd said _not as pretty as you_ , and she'd kissed him right on the top of his head.

Mrs. Gallagher says the overalls fit good, and the tunics are good, but the pink dress is too tight and hurts his ears when she drags it up, and the boots pinch his toes. She doesn't ask him to talk, anymore, but she seems to know when he doesn't like something. The shirt with the yellow ducks is his favorite. She ties the shoelaces on the sneakers for him, kneeling down so she's his height. She smells kind of good, but kind of funny, like cake and weird perfume. "Walk around now, honey," she says, when she's tied the laces into neat bows, and he does. They just feel like shoes.

In the bedroom, Sammy starts to cry. Dean runs in—he didn't sleep all the way through his nap time! Mrs. Gallagher says, "Dean," behind him, but she's slow and old and she doesn't catch him in time. There's a sigh, but Sammy's sad, and Dean's hand fits through the bars of the crib and he can tickle Sammy's soft baby tummy, patting him and saying shush like he's seen the grown-ups do. The room's kinda dark, but the nightlight's bright enough to see by.

Sammy hiccups, surprised, but his little face is all pink and wet, and he bats at Dean's hand. Then Mrs. Gallagher's there, scooping Sammy out of the crib. She sits down on the small bed Dean's been sleeping in, putting Sammy to her shoulder and patting his back. Sammy hiccups again, but he doesn't cry, and she murmurs quiet things while Dean watches with his knuckles against his mouth: _hey there, little man_ , and _you're a strong boy, aren't you? Yes. You're going to be good and tough, aren't you._

Sammy's diaper isn't full, when she checks. "Hm, maybe someone needs a bottle?" she says. Dean chews on his lip. He's not tall enough to work the stove, to warm up the formula stuff they have to use now. Daddy yelled at him one time when he tried, and he knows he's not supposed to. He doesn't have any other way to help, though.

Mrs. Gallagher says, "Dean, honey," and he realizes he's just been staring, and he looks down at the floor. "No, it's okay. Come here, sit here on the bed."

He does. His feet don't quite touch the fluffy blue rug. This was their youngest boy's room, before he moved away, and they've kept it the same, with trucks and baseball posters and all that boy stuff. Dean misses his room, at home.

Mrs. Gallagher pets over his head, like he's her cat Sylvester, and then leans in close to talk to him. "You know," she says, and then clears her throat. "Your dad is going to need some help, once you all get back on your feet. Into your own new house, I mean. Without your mama, it's going to be hard to take care of Sammy all by himself. A house needs a woman, or it needs a halman, but with just a man nothing ever gets done."

He looks up at her, confused, and she smiles for some reason and shakes her head. "Well, you'll understand that part when you're older," she says, kinda quiet. Sammy hiccups, again, and she pats his back but then looks again at Dean, very serious and straight-on. "You're not a baby anymore, honey. Sammy's the baby. Do you think you can be his big hather, and look after him?"

Dean nods. She nods too, and then she has him scoot back on the bed, puts his back all the way up against the wall where one of the baseball posters crackles, and then she leans over and hands over Sammy, real careful. "You look after him, then," she says. "I'll be right back with the bottle, and we can get him some lunch."

Sammy's face is still wet and wrinkly. He doesn't seem all that happy, but he's real warm, and heavy on Dean's arm. Dean tickles his tummy again, and then taps Sammy's tiny nose with his finger. That makes his eyes go all big, and he makes a little _bah_ sound, his hand waving around. Dean lets Sammy capture his finger. He holds it in his small fist, kinda sticky and gross. Dean doesn't mind.

Much later, Dean wakes up to find Daddy petting his hair back from his head. He's laying out flat on the bed, on top of the covers, and Sammy's heavy on his chest, still asleep. "Hey, sweetie," Dad says, in that weird scratchy voice, "is Sam being good?"

Dean nods. Dad turns his face away, and it's all shiny. He's got a beard. Dean used to peek into the bathroom when Daddy was home and watch him shaving. He hasn't seen Daddy do that since they've come to Mr. and Mrs. Gallagher's house.

"You keep watching out for Sammy, Dean," Dad says, after a little while. "You're a good hal."

Dad sniffs, hard, and then he leans over and presses a kiss soft against the back of Sammy's little head, and then kisses Dean's cheek. His beard's all scratchy. When he leaves he swings the door nearly all the way closed, behind him, and that means the room's nearly dark except for the nightlight. Sammy's heavy, but he's warm. Somewhere out in the house, he can hear the grown-ups talking to each other, and he can't really understand what they're saying, but it doesn't really matter. He'll hold onto Sammy, and they'll sleep. Mrs. Gallagher showed him how to mix up the formula, if Sammy needs another snack later. He can handle it.


	2. 1990

Fifth grade, as far as Dean's concerned, is _the worst_. The town Dad's working out of right now is pretty small, and there are only fifty kids Dean's age in the whole dumb grade, and most of them are complete jerks. The school even has _uniforms_ , because this is a weird terrible backwater, and that means at recess, which is supposed to be the fun part of the day, he's stuck in the awful navy blue tunic and the khaki pants that were all Dad could scrounge up, and it's hot and sticky outside, and everything just—sucks shorts.

He's sitting on the raised roots of the huge tree over by the school fence, getting some shade at least even if there's hardly any breeze. He wanted to roll his pants up but Ms. Hendrix said that wasn't ladylike, and it was against dress code to boot, and he already got an in-school suspension two weeks ago, so. Anyway, he's gotta keep an eye out for Sammy. The first grade classrooms are on the far side of the building from where Dean's is, but from here under the tree he can see Sam's. They made big paper bunny crafts for Easter and the teacher decorated the windows with them. Sam's is the yellow one with the screwed up ear, and somehow he got glitter on the back side of it. Ol' Sparkle Butt, Dean called it, until Sam hit his knee. He still calls it that, but only in his head.

There's a game of tag going on with the fifth grade kids—lots of shouting. Some of the boys and hals are playing basketball, and some of the other hals and the girls are playing hopscotch on the sidewalk while Ms. Hendrix watches. He's wearing this totally frumpy collared tunic in a real ugly brown, but his hair's pretty, curled so it sits just under his chin. Dean scrubs his head. Ugh, he's sweaty. Dad cuts his hair, most of the time, and this last time he accidentally cut way too much off, and trying to even it out just made more come off, so Dean sorta looks like a boy. _Sorry, honey,_ Dad had said, and of course Dean said he liked it fine. It's no trouble to comb now, at least. Anyway, when Max Hammerstrom made fun of him for it, Dean totally beat him up, just busted his lip open and knocked him flat, and Max is a six grader at the junior high, and then it got around that a boy got beat up by that weird hal. Totally worth the suspension, honestly, when Dean thinks back about it.

A scuff in the dirt. Dean pops his head up, pressing his back against the tree trunk, but it's just—those two nerds Amanda Jackson and Bobby Carlisle, from Mr. White's class. "Hey," Amanda says, pushing up her glasses. "Can we sit over here?"

"It's a free country," Dean says, and Bobby sinks down onto the grass right away, tucking his knees beneath him all ladylike. He's wearing the school tunic, too, but he's got shorts on underneath. Dean's intensely jealous for a second. Amanda sits down on one of the roots, her pleated skirt poofing out around her, and Dean frowns at them. "What are you doing?"

"Um," she says, and then bites her lip. She pushes up her glasses again—they're cokebottles, her eyes big and blue and magnified until she looks sort of like a bug.

A glance at Bobby, who shrugs, and then she reaches out and shoves his knee. He starts playing with the end of one of his short pigtails. Dean raises his eyebrows exaggeratedly, making a _well?_ gesture, and finally Bobby blurts out, "We think it's awesome that you put Max in the hospital."

A shriek, from one of the girls playing tag; a burst of laughter from the kids playing hopscotch. Dean looks back and forth between them, and starts, "I—" but then shakes his head, because if they think Max got admitted to the hospital with a bloody nose then they don't know much about the hospital, and that's not his business. "What's it to you?" he says, instead.

"Um, he's _awful_?" Amanda says. She tugs out her scrunchie and Billy automatically moves over to help her smooth her frizzy puff of hair back into a tighter ponytail. "He's such a jerk. No one ever stands up to him, and all the boys are too afraid."

"Boys suck," Bobby says, immediately, and Dean shrugs. They kinda do.

Amanda's ponytail is fixed, and Dean doesn't really have anything to say. Amanda sucks her bottom lip into her mouth, looking at him. "Um. Me and Bobby watch Santa Barbara after school. Do you want to come to my house? You could watch with us."

Dean opens his mouth and then shuts it again. None of the kids around here have bothered with him at all. He runs his hand over his head again, and Bobby's eyes flick up. "Do you want to borrow one of my barrettes?" he says, putting a hand to his head. "I bet it'd look cute."

He has three, in a line—purple and blue and white, tucking his bangs back. Dean swallows, and shakes his head. "What's Santa Barbara?" he says, instead, and Bobby and Amanda both gasp and lean forward, looking at him like those missionaries back in Utah who couldn't believe he'd never heard of whatever their church was. The rest of recess passes in a blur, while they talk over the top of each other telling him all about the trials of the Capwells and the Lockridges in Santa Barbara. Their unanimous favorite is Heath, the hal who falls in love with Scott, and there's someone called Cassandra and then someone else is pregnant?

The bell rings and Ms. Hendrix claps his hands, calling for all of the kids to come inside. Dean blinks, sitting up. He was so engrossed in the plot he didn't even realize recess was over. Amanda stands up, brushing off the back of her skirt. "So, are you gonna come over? Warren is suspected of Amado's murder!"

Dean stands up, too, and his eyes fall on the yellow bunny in the window. "I can't," he says, and he's—he shakes his head. Bobby turns and looks over toward the first grade rooms, too, but of course he doesn't know about Sparkle Butt. Nobody does, except for Dean and Sammy.

"Oh," Amanda says, and pushes her glasses up again. Her magnified eyes look sorta disappointed, and Dean chews on the inside of his lip and shrugs. It's no one's business but their own, that's what Dad always says. Dean doesn't make excuses for it.

"Kids!" Ms. Hendrix calls, his hands on his hips. Almost all the other kids are off the playground—they break into a run, and Dean is totally way faster than both of them, especially Bobby with his wheezy breath, but he keeps pace instead of running ahead. Ms. Hendrix goes into Dean's classroom, and Bobby and Amanda hesitate before they go into the other door for Mr. White's room.

"Um," Bobby says, and looks at Amanda.

She shrugs, and then turns and hugs Dean, abrupt and awkward over the top of his arms. "Thanks for, you know, beating up Max," she says, against his shoulder, and then she pulls back all blushy and disappears into the classroom.

Bobby shakes his head. "Maybe you can come over sometime?" he says, and then Mr. White says _Bobby!_ loud inside and he grimaces and then the door slams behind him.

Ms. Hendrix gives Dean a long look over his glasses when he slinks into class, but doesn't say anything. The rest of the kids are still chattering, anyway, revved up from running around, and Dean slumps into his seat near the back and folds his arms on the desk, propping his chin on top. Santa Barbara, handsome men and beautiful hals and girls, and Bobby and Amanda chattering away, telling him all about it. Amanda's mom coming in with cookies, or lemonade. A lazy easy afternoon.

Probably it's crappy, anyway. Dad never wants to watch the daytime shows, says they're all about romance and people who make a living out of bad decisions. Not their thing.

When school lets out, Bobby and Amanda wave at him before they get on their bus. Dean watches the bus, all the kids loading on and talking and laughing and pushing each other. He's surprised when a little hand slips into his, and he looks down to find Sammy frowning at him.

"Why are you eating your lip?" he says.

Dean lets it out from between his teeth. "I'm not," he says, and Sam immediately opens his mouth, so Dean says, faster: "Got your bag? Got your shoes? Got your teeth?"

Sam shows Dean his blue backpack, sticks out one dirty sneaker, and then bares all his teeth in a terrible gappy grin. "Got 'em!" he says, proud.

"Good," Dean says, and Sam leans close the whole long walk home, his hand sweaty in Dean's, and he tells Dean all about the book his teacher read in class today. A bunny who was a vampire! Very scary, but Sam says he wasn't scared, not a bit.

"Bet you were," Dean says, and Sam sticks his tongue out. A vampire bunny. What the heck. "Doesn't matter, though, Sammy. No such thing as vampires."

He knows, for sure. Dad told him. Means Dean can watch those old dumb Dracula movies without worrying.

Sam thinks about it, almost all the way to the rental house. Dad's car isn't in the driveway, when they round the corner of the block. Dean takes a deep breath, lets it out again. Okay.

"I'm glad there's not vampires, Dean," he says, all serious. Dean looks down at him. He's frowning, his hair flopping down over his little forehead. His hair's longer than Dean's, right now. "I think that'd be scary."

They make it to their door. Sam bounces up the three concrete steps, and he wants to open up the metal screen door. Dean fishes in his own backpack for the key on its loop of knotted-up bootlace. There's leftover mac and cheese he can feed Sam, and then he'll do some reading with Sam so he can fall asleep good, and then hopefully Dad will be home, tonight. Hopefully.

"Dean? Don't you think that would be scary?"

Dean looks down at Sammy, peeking up through his bangs. "Yeah, real scary," he says, and then he finally finds the key, and unlocks the door, and Sam disappears through it like a shot. "No cartoons!" Dean shouts, after him, trying to unstick his key from the crappy lock. He looks out over the street, before he closes the door. Nothing he can see, nothing wrong, for now. From the living room comes the burst of the TV coming on—yeah, it's cartoons. He sighs. He makes sure the line of salt in the door sill's still thick, and then closes the door firm against the outside.


	3. 1998

When he gets back to the apartment, Dean drops his jacket to the floor and walks straight past where Sam's doing homework on the lumpy couch and slams the bathroom door behind himself.

 _Nice to see you, too!_ comes a shout through the thin walls, and Dean leans back against the door for a minute, eyes closed. God, he's tired, but he got off work early for a reason. He's got to get ready.

He takes his time in the shower, letting it run super-hot against his skin so he gets all pink and steamed up like a lobster. Eases up some of the ache in his shoulders, makes the bruise on his hip from getting tossed against the gravestone tingle. Feels good. Normally he loves it when Dad calls him out to a hunt he's working, especially now that Sammy's practically grown up enough to look after himself, but last night was just bad timing. He works conditioner into his hair slowly, giving himself a little scalp massage. Lucky the ghoul didn't hit his face—it'd be hard to explain away a bruise, especially when his job at the local mechanic is kinda skirting the line. Mark likes them nice.

Dean licks his lips under the water, shakes his head. Mark. Normally, Dean goes for boys that aren't too clean-cut, because they don't ask too many questions about why _he's_ not exactly a model citizen. It was easy enough when he was still going to school—he skirted dress codes, blew off homework, and it was like a massive beacon to the cute kinda stupid boys that here was a hal who was perfectly happy to make out under the bleachers instead of going to fifth period chemistry, and maybe if you were lucky you'd make it under his waistband. Easy. Dean's not ashamed of it—it's hard enough to have a good time in his life without bellyaching about things that make it easier.

When he finally shuts off the water, the pounding he's been ignoring just gets louder. He rolls his eyes and wraps the towel around himself, tucking it neatly under his armpits, and when he unlocks the door Sam practically falls inside. "Way to be patient, bitch," Dean says, but Sam's already fumbling at his jeans, and Dean rolls his eyes and faces the mirror.

Piss hitting the water—Sam sighs, long and loud. Honestly, boys. Dad and Sam are cut right out of the same gross cloth. "Were you planning to drown yourself?" Sam says, behind Dean. "Who takes an hour-long shower?"

"Someone who just got off a seven-hour shift rebuilding a Cadillac after a full night of killing ghouls, and also someone who made you pot roast last night, and oh yeah, drives you everywhere," Dean says, rubbing his hair gently dry with Sam's towel. He hopes it's still wet when Sam goes to use it in the morning. Little twerp. The toilet flushes and there's a zip, and Dean emerges from the towel to find Sam looking slightly— _slightly_ —abashed. Well, better than nothing.

"Didn't know you went hunting last night," Sam says, after a pause. He flips the lid down on the toilet and takes a seat.

"You were asleep when Dad called," Dean says. He smooths a little mousse into his hair and scrunches the back. Starting to get a little long, but it curls nicely under his ears when he tucks it back. Hm. Dad doesn't like him to go too long, because it's a liability when hunting, but he's always sort of wanted to see if he could pull off a Rene Zellweger look. He was super cute in _Jerry Maguire_.

"Are you—going somewhere?" Sam says. Dean glances down—Sammy's frowning, in the corner of the mirror.

"Good detective work, Poirot," Dean says, raising his eyebrows. Sam sticks his tongue out, and Dean smirks at him. He fumbles through his kit for his tweezers, and leans over to pluck one or two errant eyebrow hairs, and that one dark hair on his lip that he just can't get to stay away. Smooth, though, everywhere else. "Mark asked me out, finally."

"Mark?" Sam says, and then, immediately, "Wait, the guy from the Blockbuster?"

Dean shrugs. Mark's hot, and he's nice. The Blockbuster is right next to the garage where Dean's been working, and he goes over there on his lunch breaks to eat and watch whatever the store has on, and Mark's the assistant manager and never minds him hanging out. He's just—he's nice. Dean met his last girlfriend, a pretty petite little churchgoer. She wore cardigans and knee-length skirts, and Dean had to shake her hand and smile at her when she came to drop off a lasagna for Mark's lunch, and he had to watch Mark kiss her cheek and smile at her. Mark would never go for a greasy-nailed hal who dropped out of high school and who has to lie about every aspect of his life—but then Mark asked him, yesterday after his shift, and Dean couldn't say anything but yes.

"I didn't know you—" Sam cuts himself off. Dean puts the tweezers down and grabs his bag from the Walgreens. "What's that?"

"None of your beeswax," Dean says, but he dumps it all out in the sink and Sam comes over and looks anyway, because of course he does.

"Makeup?" Sam says, eyebrows disappearing behind his too-long hair, and Dean says, "Shut up," but when he looks up into the mirror again his ears are turning pink. Damn it.

He usually only swipes on a little eyeliner, bare minimum. Never really learned to do more. Boys have always told him his freckles are cute, and he rolls his eyes because they just want to get into his shorts. Mark's never mentioned his looks at all, they've always just talked about how bad the Jason movies have gotten and how Dean thinks Scorsese is overrated, and how Mark loves every Meg Ryan movie. She's cute, he says.

Sam's frowning at him, now. "Don't you have algebra to do?" Dean says, and unscrews the mascara tube. He kind of knows what he's doing. Kind of.

"Freshmen take algebra, sophomores take geometry," Sam says, and then while Dean's still staring at the gooey black wand: "I'll do it."

Dean blinks at him. Sam sets his jaw, in that stubborn _I'm going to get my way_ look. Seriously, him and Dad are way too alike sometimes. "I've seen this on TV, okay," Sam says. "You're going to end up looking like a raccoon. I have a steady hand, I'll do it." When Dean opens his mouth, Sam holds up both hands. "I totally beat you at knife-throwing practice last week. And darts. Promise, I'll do a good job."

Dean finds himself sitting on the toilet, the plastic lid cold on the backs of his thighs. He hitches his towel a little higher over his chest. "If you screw this up I'm going to pummel you into the floor," he says, and Sam nods, like, _of course_ , and scoots up to stand between Dean's knees, a look of total concentration on his face. Under direction, Dean looks straight up at the ceiling, and long years of hunting helps him control his flinch when the wand comes into his peripheral vision. The touch of it is wet, goopy. Gross.

"Your eyelashes are long enough, you know," Sam says, quietly. He works carefully, short gentle movements. Dean doesn't dare move. Sam pulls back and frowns, and Dean looks up at him, trying not to blink. Weird to have Sam taller than him. He better hope he hits a growth spurt for his sixteenth birthday.

"You want me to do the rest?" Sam says. Dean shrugs. He doesn't know what he's doing, any more than Sam does. Anyway, this feels sort of nice. Like being pampered. He spent long enough doing the mothering in this family. About time someone took care of him a little.

When Sam's done, Dean stands up and looks in the mirror. His hair's about dry, settled into its usual wavy bob around his face, and Sam—wow. Dean didn't buy anything too outrageous—he was kinda trying to copy nice churchy girlfriend, after all—and Sam did a good job with it. The mascara makes his eyes pop, and the eyeshadow's a soft mature-looking brown, and the lipstick is a pretty rose that makes his mouth look even more full, and the powder Sam brushed over his cheeks blurs his freckles into something a little less ridiculous. He makes kissy face in the mirror. Sam smiles, close-mouthed.

Their clothes are an explosion all over the floor of their bedroom, dirty mixed with clean. Dean bites his lip before he remembers, and then he has to lick the taste of lipstick off his teeth. "I don't know what to wear," he says, under his breath.

Sam speaks behind him, making him jump. "You really like this guy, huh?"

Dean shrugs. "He's—a good guy." He kneels down and starts digging through his bag, looking for clean underwear at least. He thinks his pink high-cuts are still fresh. "He's nice to me."

Sam doesn't say anything to that. Most of the boys Dean's fooled around with are—well, fools. They like his mouth and his ass and that Dean's willing, and they're good enough for a good time but not much else. Dad's been hunting around this town for like four months, longer than they've stayed most anywhere, and Sammy's doing good at the high school and Dean's got an okay job, and apparently Oregon isn't running out of ghosts and poltergeists and werewolves and whatnot anytime soon, and Mark smiles at Dean in a particular way when he buys Red Ropes and Mike & Ikes to take home for Sammy after his shift, and. It just wouldn't suck, maybe, to go out with someone who talks to Dean like he's a person.

He has a blue blouse that hangs modestly low over his hips, but it's got wrinkles all down the front. He has that purple plaid shirt, and he wriggles into his cute cut-offs and shrugs on the plaid, tying it up above his navel like he usually does, but when he looks in the mirror he just—he presses his lips together. Mark's coming to pick him up, in like twenty minutes, and he doesn't want to look like another trailer-trash hal ho.

"Wear your blue sweater," Sam says. Dean looks over his shoulder—Sam's leaning in the doorway, his arms folded. Watching Dean dress, the little perv, but—well, it's not like it's anything Sam hasn't seen. Sam nods at the bed. "I think it's clean. Blue sweater, and the purple pants."

"Not exactly climbing the peak of Mount Sexy there," Dean says, but—what the hell. He whips off the current outfit, stands there in his undies while he digs through the piles. They have got to do laundry more often. The purple pants aren't his favorite, but they're form-fitting, and the blue sweater's a little bit too tight. He lifts it carefully over his hair, makes sure his makeup doesn't smear, and tugs it into place.

The sweater's got a pretty conservative boat-neck, but it does show off his broad shoulders, the curve of muscle in his arms, and it's just short enough that there's a peek of his belly between the hem and his waistband. His hips barely fit in the damn things, and he spins around in the mirror, trying to get a look. "They don't make my butt look too big?" he says, craning his neck.

Sam snorts. "You sound like one of those hals in a movie," he says, and Dean stoops and throws a balled-up sock at him. Sam dodges. Nimble little bitch, but that really just means Dean's been training him too well. "Seriously, it's fine. Smeared your lipstick, though."

"Shit," Dean says, and rushes back into the bathroom. He cleans up the edge, and tucks his hair back into place. He told himself he wasn't going to fuss. So much for that.

Mark's going to be here soon. Dean puts Mom's ring back on his right hand, lifts his amulet carefully over his head. He tucks it below the sweater, and it makes a little bit of a bump on his nice flat chest, but who cares. He's only got one pair of non-work boots and so they'll have to do, and once he's found them half-buried under some newspapers in the living room he shoves them on. They seriously have to clean up before Dad gets home. When he's done he stands back up and puts his hands on his hips. "How's that?"

Sam's got his arms folded tight over his chest. "You look… good," he says. Honest, no bitchy little-brother voice. Dean ducks his head down, pretends like he's messing with the sweater. Friggin' Sammy. A bitch so much of the time, then sweet when it counts.

A honk, outside. Heat immediately floods up to Dean's cheeks and his stomach turns, nervous. He's literally never been picked up by a guy before. "Okay," he says, taking a deep breath. "Do your homework, and there's leftover roast from yesterday from dinner, and make sure you go to bed before midnight, and I'll—um, I guess I'll be back tonight, but you know the drill."

"I know, I know," Sam says, rolling his eyes. Dean shoves his shoulder, just for being a twerp, and then drags him into a hug. Sam sucks in a breath, but hugs him back after a second, his arms tight around Dean's waist. "Hey, um," Sam says, muffled against Dean's arm. "I hope you have a good time."

Dean drops a kiss onto his head. "Me too," he says, and it was supposed to come out sleazy but—well, it doesn't.

Sam lifts his face up. He's not smiling, but his face is soft. "You're really pretty," he says. "Mark's dumb if he doesn't see it, okay? Make-up or no."

A warm little something blooms in Dean's chest. Friggin' Sammy. "Whatever," he says, but when he shoves Sam off he's gentle about it. Mark's crappy Japanese car is waiting in the apartment parking lot behind the Impala when Dean opens the door, and he takes a deep breath and waggles his fingers, and tries not to feel ridiculous when he comes down the stairs and settles into the passenger seat.

"Wow," Mark says, smiling, one wrist resting on the steering wheel. He's dressed casually, but he smells amazing. "You look gorgeous."

"Thanks," Dean says, tucking his hair behind his ear. He glances up at the apartment, and Sam's standing there in the doorway, blocking some of the light. Once Dean looks up, Sam shuts the door without waving. Dean hopes he remembers to lay down the salt line before he goes to bed. He lays a hand over the bump of the amulet under his sweater, and turns a grin on Mark. "I'm ready if you are."

Mark touches his knee, a warm little spark, and then puts the car in drive. Dean's heart thuds in his throat, but he swallows it down. He's already nervous—he can't be worrying about Sammy the whole time, on top of everything else. The rest of the night is waiting.


	4. 2005

Three in the morning on I-80 is a really, really boring stretch of road. Dean taps his fingers on the steering wheel, Bon Scott yelling out _it's a long way to the top_ on the tapedeck, and he tries not to look across the bench seat to where it's suddenly not empty, but it's hard. Sam got taller, somehow, in the time he's been gone. He was tall enough, when he was that gawky senior in high school and finally crept above Dean, all the way to six feet—now it's just ridiculous. Filled out, too, and somehow that was more of a surprise. Dean's never been with Dad, on one of those check-ins Dad pretends not to do, and so he hasn't seen Sam in four years. Little brother turned into a man, when Dean wasn't looking. Who knew.

Jericho's still a couple hours away, up in the Sierra Nevada, and they've got to skirt around Sacramento because Dean may have turned the local traffic cops against him when he blew through two summers ago and got six total traffic tickets in four days and never paid them off. Sam's doing a bad job of pretending to sleep, stiff against the other window. He's always been terrible at it, but that's not really his fault. How's he to know that snuffling sound he makes, the smallest cousin to a snore. Good to know that hasn't changed, no matter what else has.

The tape transitions to _Rock'n'Roll Singer_. Another mile-marker gone. Dean shifts and settles down for a long night drive. He doesn't even want to listen to this right now, but Sam was such a bitch about it that he's going to stick to his guns. Anyway, AC/DC is awesome, doesn't matter what anyone says.

That apartment. What a joke. Beaded curtain, like this is what, 1974? Plants everywhere, too. Dean doesn't know if that's Sam's thing or Jessica's.

He licks his lips, glances in the rearview. No one on the road, still, other than a semi that's steadily falling away behind them. Jessica. Tall, almost as tall as a hal, though Dean thinks he'd have an inch or so on her even if he weren't wearing his boots. Pretty, too, even tumbled out of bed in her pajamas. Big boobs. Maybe Sam prefers T to A. Dean doesn't know. Sam never wanted to talk about girls or hals when he was a kid, always wrinkled his nose and changed the subject when Dean would needle him about the pretty options at school. Four years since then, and two years since they've really talked, and who knows what goes on in that big brain. Half a decade ago Dean would've said he knew.

Another semi coming up, and Dean passes it easily on the left, the Impala gliding past like the truck's standing still. The song goes on, and Dean's still annoyed but he sings along, under his breath: _you can stick your golden handshake, you can stick your silly rules_ , and hums through the chorus, and then he's just staring out at all the black asphalt, the striped yellow line disappearing smoothly under his left headlight, and then he reaches out and smacks Sam in the chest, sharp enough to sting.

" _Ow_ ," Sam says, clapping a hand to the spot, and even in the dark Dean can tell that he's glaring across the seat.

He makes sure his grin is as wide and shit-eating as it gets. "Oh, were you sleeping?" he says, sugary. He glances over and, yeah, that's some bitchy bitchface. Dean's supposed to be the one with the ovaries here. "You're a bad fake. Come on, keep me awake."

"I wasn't—" Sam starts, and then just sighs. Like the lie would be too much effort. "How much longer to Jericho?"

"Two hours, not counting a stop for gas." Sam doesn't say anything, and when Dean looks over again he's got his elbow perched on the door, his hand to his forehead. "Come on. Haven't talked to you in forever, man. You've gotta have a story about some flashcards you made, or something."

Nothing, again. Another truck, carrying gas, and another easy pass. Dean swallows. Sam used to give the silent treatment as a kid—not so much with Dean, but after one of those big blow-up fights with Dad.

No. Not thinking about Dad. "Tell me about Jessica," he says, and—wow, shit, that was absolutely not what he wanted to say.

"What about her?" Sam says. _Her_. His voice comes out like a creak, but—okay, he's talking. "She's my girlfriend."

"I got that," Dean says, "thanks." He taps his thumbs on the steering wheel. This is nothing he wants to hear, except in that sick way that he sometimes presses on bruises and feels the ache seep all the way down to his bones. There's nothing he can think of that'll change the subject non-awkwardly, though—he drove straight through from Louisiana, and even with his practice at not sleeping his brain feels like it's not working great. Probably why he thought it was a good idea to come begging for Sam in the first place.

Moment of quiet. Sam shifts on the seat. "She's a philosophy major," he says, slowly. "Really smart. We've been dating, uh, two years, as of last month."

Two years. Okay. Dean tucks his hair behind his ear, leaves his fist there to lean his jaw on. "She the one with the green thumb?"

Sam huffs. "Yeah," he says, and Dean can hear the smile in it. "She says she wants to have a big garden. Not flowers, herbs and vegetables and stuff. She's growing potatoes in the living room."

"Got yourself a little farmer wife, huh?" Dean says. It sounds—maybe more sarcastic than he meant it to. He swipes his eyes with his hands, pops them wide. God, he's tired.

He doesn't get a response to the farmer crack, which is probably just as well. He doesn't even know what he meant by it. Instead, Sam looks at him for a while across the seat. Makes the hair on Dean's neck stand up. "What have you been doing?" Sam says, eventually.

Sounds honestly curious. It'd be nice, sort of, if Dean had any idea what he meant. "Hunting?" he says. He shrugs, taps his thumb on the steering wheel. "You know, saving people? The whole shebang? Took care of that voodoo thing, before that was a poltergeist outside of Little Rock, before that the, uh, ghost of a school teacher. That was a doozy."

It was, too, and he still has the sutures holding together a flap of skin on his thigh to prove it, but Sam's shaking his head. "Like I never left," he says, quiet under the music. Dean frowns, turns the volume down just a little. Starting to give him a headache. "Don't you ever want to settle down? Find a guy, get a real life?"

Curious, again. Dean has to swallow down the first thing that comes to mind. God, Sam can throw haymakers sometimes, and it's like he doesn't even mean to. "Who do you think you're talking to?" he says, making sure he cracks a smile. "It's a hunter's life for me. You're the one thinking of gardens and picket fences, huh?"

The wind finally shoves the clouds away from the huge moon and silvery light pours over the landscape, everywhere except where the Impala's headlamps pick out their little space in the middle of all this night. "Yeah," Sam says, softly, and Dean nods, swallowing. He lets his thumb slip down and tuck under the leather cord of his amulet. It's the most recent replacement. Damn thing keeps snapping, wearing thin. Last one rotted, because Dean's stopped taking it off when he showers.

Picket fences. Dean can't even imagine it—but then, all of a sudden, he can. Sam coming home from the office, parking something stupid in the garage. A Lexus, a Mercedes. The grass green and well-maintained, and the house nice but not over-the-top, because Sam's not flashy like that. A table laid for dinner, and a warm kitchen, and books all around, and when Sam opens up the back door his beautiful wife kneeling in the dirt, tending _her_ garden. Long, golden hair and a sweet smile. Steady, smart Jessica. A fucking philosophy major. Well, she and Sam are just made for each other, aren't they.

Dean's so tired his eyes are starting to hurt. The turn-off for the 113 to dodge around Sacramento's coming up soon. "Pit stop in five miles," he says. "I've gotta pee. You're in charge of chocolate and coffee."

Sam doesn't say anything. Dean folds his arm over his chest, leans back into the seat. Two hours to Jericho. He hopes, he hopes, he hopes they find Dad there, or at least a clue of where he's gone. Both men in his family gone—that'll be more than he can take.

Sam reaches out and pops out the cassette. "Okay, I can't do it anymore," he says, and Dean's about to slug him, but then he slides in a fresh tape. Oh—Zeppelin II, side two. "You've got to burn that AC/DC tape."

"Blasphemy," Dean says. It's not quite rewound all the way—Heartbreaker's a minute in. _Been ten years or maybe more,_ and Dean's chest hurts. Still. Wouldn't be driving with Sammy if he weren't bitching about the music. "You know Angus and Malcolm Young are gods of rock."

"Some gods need killing," Sam says, matter-of-factly, and Dean takes the exit for the 113 and warms up to his subject. Been a few years; clearly Sam's education on music, if nothing else, has been deficient. Lucky for him Dean's a patient teacher.


	5. 2010

Time's not something Dean's ever thought about, really. Ever since he was a kid, ever since he really came to understand what hunting was, he always just figured—one day, no matter when it came, his number would come up. A bullet or a ghost or a werewolf's claws, and bam. No more Dean Winchester. He was okay with that, in the abstract. It was a lot easier when he didn't know what was waiting on death's other side.

He's alone in the motel room, sitting on his temporary bed. Maryland. Never his favorite state. Sam's out. Clearing his head, he says. Not the time for that, with hell and heaven and who knows what else on their tails, but Dean's too tired to argue. As long as Sam brings back beer, he can clear his head all he wants.

He took a bath, floating suspended in the water until it went cold, and then shaved his legs, taking his time with it. They haven't had time for much, lately—and that included laundry, as it turns out. All his underwear's dirty, and most everything else he owns, too. He tugged on a pair of Sam's old boxers, the elastic cutting into his hips, and one of his oldest surviving t-shirts, and he was sitting cross-legged on the bed sorting through laundry and his travel kit when Bobby called, and since then he hasn't been doing much of anything.

When Sam comes back, Dean's sitting in the exact same place. "Got the beer," Sam says, and he sounds about as tired as Dean feels. No wonder.

"Hope a hellhound didn't follow you home," Dean says. "You know I don't like dogs."

Sam doesn't laugh. Fair enough; it wasn't very funny.

They just left Brady's body in that alleyway. Didn't burn it, didn't take care of the bones. He was a bitch, even bitchier than most demons Dean's had to deal with—and he's dealt with far more than his fair share—but once he was dead he just looked… sad. He would've been a pretty enough halman, before the demon possessed him. Had a whole life before him. Welcome to the club.

Sam drops his jacket on the table, toes the line of salt back thick in front of the door. His shoulders are low, his hair hanging in front of his eyes. "You want to talk about it?" Dean says. Figures he ought to ask, even if he knows what the answer will be.

"No," Sam says. Yeah. It's not curt, though, or irritated. He tears open the cardboard on the twelve-pack and fishes out a bottle, and then after a second he grabs another, and then he comes and sits down on his bed. Dean takes the bottle, when Sam offers it, but he just lets it fall down onto the blanket. It rolls against his leg with a touch of barely-cool glass. Sam was driving around for a long time. "What are you doing?" Sam says, finally.

"Bobby called," Dean says. "Says he's got a line on Death. Wouldn't say more over the phone. Think we ought to bring him a Snuggie or something? It'd work with his wheelchair."

A pause. "What," Sam says.

Dean looks up, finally. Sam's watching him, brows a knot, but he's here. Close enough that Dean could reach out and touch him. He holds up what he's been fiddling with, instead: the neat ring of his birth control pills, filled of course in some other halman's name, half gone. "Heat's coming up next month," Dean says, letting the plastic case drop back down. He turns it over and over in his hands. "I was going to take my course, and I thought, why bother. World might not be around next month."

He tosses the ring back into his bag. The beer's warm, but it's still beer, and he uses the ring to crack it open. Sam's got his head dropped down, his elbows planted heavy on his knees. Dean takes a long swallow, lets it slide lukewarm and fizzy down to his gut, and he hasn't eaten in a while so it blooms hot in the pit of his stomach. He laces his fingers together around the solid column of the bottle and takes a breath. "Bobby told me about the talk you two had," he says. Sam's head jerks up. "When I was with Crowley. You want to say yes?"

"No," Sam says, immediately. Dean raises his eyebrows, and Sam grimaces. "No, of course I don't— _want_ to. I just—don't know how else we can do it. I don't think Lucifer's going to just hop into the cage on his own, you know?"

When Bobby disconnected the call Dean threw his phone so hard at the wall that it broke. There's a dent in the shitty ugly wallpaper, right above the silent TV. He wanted to scream at Sam, when he came back—wanted to punch him in the face and break that familiar pointy nose and grab him by the ears and curse himself hoarse.

"He said it'd happen this way," Dean says, now, instead. Sam frowns at him, and Dean shrugs. It's too late for screaming. "Lucifer. He told me, this is how it'd go."

Sam's whole expression flickers, like headlights passing through blinds, and Dean looks back down at his lap before he can see where it ends up. He still dreams about that day, wakes up sweating in the middle of the night to get away from it. He still hates when Sam wears white.

"I just keep thinking," he says, into the silence. "We keep trying to say no, no, no, and then here comes the yes barreling down the highway no matter what, and he's going to take you, and there's not going to be anything I can do to stop it, and you don't get how—"

"Hey," Sam says, and he's suddenly in Dean's space, his beer somehow gone and his hands on Dean's knees, right up close. "Don't. I'm not going anywhere. It was just an idea."

"A terrible idea." Dean puts a hand on top of Sam's, looks down at that instead of meeting his awful, serious eyes. "Every time I think, maybe we're going to make it out of this, something comes up and proves me wrong."

Sam's hands are huge, have been ever since he was a teenager and growing up in about four different directions at once. Dean's hand doesn't cover it, not even close. Sam shifts his weight, crouched there on the floor between the two beds, and Dean shakes his head, closing his eyes. He has so many versions of Sam, catalogued inside his head—versions he's hated, versions he was scared of. Versions he's loved so much he literally couldn't stand it. He doesn't need another version to lose.

"Dean," Sam says, his voice low and near and full of—something, and heat comes mortifyingly up to the back of Dean's eyes. Stupid pre-heat hormones, closing up his throat. Sam's thumb strokes a circle on the inside of his knee, trying to be comforting. "Hey, come on. Look at me."

He swallows. The room shimmers, a little, but he's not going to cry. Just the one lamp on, between the two beds, and Sam's lit up there on the floor in front of it. His hair's still hanging down, nearly as long as Dean's, and an old nearly-forgotten habit makes Dean reach out and tuck it back, behind Sam's ear. It's so soft; always has been.

Sam catches his hand, his fingers curling warm and loose around Dean's wrist. His eyes track over Dean's face, looking at him like it's the first time in a year. Something curls warningly in the pit of Dean's belly—something he hasn't thought about, has pushed away, time and time again. His lips part, but whatever might have come to mind doesn't come. Sam shifts, his weight moving from a crouch to one knee, and he doesn't let go of Dean's wrist. His other hand sits heavy on Dean's knee and it slides up to cover the top of Dean's thigh, his palm broad and dry.

"Sam," says Dean, but there's no strength of voice to it.

"I know," Sam says, but he doesn't. There's no way he could, not even with a lifetime sitting right inside Dean's head. His thumb slips up against Dean's wrist, to his palm, a slow easy pressure, and a beat of alarm pulses hot in the base of Dean's stomach, heat flushing up his throat and cheeks and ears so quickly that his skin prickles. Sam holds his eyes and draws Dean's hand along his jaw, Dean's fingers tracing nerveless along the sharp stubble of it, and Dean's not breathing when Sam's mouth presses soft and a little wet against the heel of his palm. His fingers twitch, without any involvement from his brain. Sam's eyes are dark, and Dean sucks in a shaky breath, and then Sam drops his wrist and shoves his hand into Dean's hair and tugs him forward and kisses him.

Dean sits frozen for about a quarter of a second, and then it's like his body flicks a switch. He gets fistfuls of Sam's shirt, his collar, keeps him close. Sam's _mouth._ Soft, and so much more cautious than he'd imagined, when he'd been drunk enough, uncareful of himself enough to imagine. Sam presses Dean's lips open, drags a thumb along the line of his jaw, and Dean makes a humiliating small noise in his throat. God. Just that small gentleness and he's wet, already, his clit hardening up.

Sam tugs back, enough that they can see each other. He's pink-cheeked now, too, patchy color and his pupils blown wide. "Let me," Sam says, breathless between them, and it's not a question but Dean nods anyway, gets his hands in Sam's hair and pulls him back, gets his mouth back on Sam's and kisses him as best he knows how. Sam tugs at his legs and Dean unfolds, his beer falling and thunking down to the carpet, and Sam grabs him by the waist and drags him forward, his thighs spreading around Sam, Sam's hands slipping under his shirt to stroke his back, his chest, fingers brushing careful over a nipple and making it go rock-hard against the cotton.

"Christ, Sammy," Dean says against Sam's mouth, squirming, and Sam bites his bottom lip, sucks it soft. God, god—Dean's thighs are already shaking, like it's his first time. Between them they wrangle Dean's shirt off and Sam's mouth immediately drops to his other nipple, a flat tongue followed by the soft scrape of teeth—and Dean's sensitive there, always has been, enough that his hips arch and his thighs clench around Sam's ribs, because that hurts but also because—because _Sam_ , and Sam's big hand drags firm down his belly to where his clit's standing up hard in, god, Sam's own boxers, and the graze of his palm over the stiff shape of it bursts electric through Dean's belly. Sam drags his teeth over Dean's nipple again, squeezes lightly at his clit. Dean's so wet now he can smell himself, which means Sam _definitely_ can, and Sam starts to tug at the boxers, trying to get Dean to lift up his hips and Dean—god, he could go with that plan, he really could, but he tugs at Sam's hair where he's got it in a two-fisted grip, tugs Sam up off his chest so the cold air stings brutal against the wet scraped-up skin, and he gets out, barely, "Come on, I want—let me see you."

Sam blinks at him, breathing hard. Barely seems to understand at first, and then—he rears back, tugging both shirts off his head at once, his hair ruffling into a mess. Dean scoots back on the bed, shoves his bag and the pile of clothes off the end, while Sam wrestles out of his boots, socks, and then stands up to undo his belt and unzip, and his jeans are so loose on those narrow hips that when he shoves them down they just drop, and his boxers with them.

He's—Dean's seen him, of course he has. This skin he's stitched up, these bones he's set. Years, though, since they were comfortable enough around each other to go naked—and maybe, now, Dean knows part of why—and he licks his lips, reaches out and sets his fingertips on Sam's lean thigh. His dick's half-hard and big already, getting bigger as it fills, the sack heavy, wiry hair growing out from where it clearly used to be more carefully trimmed back. Dean drags his fingers up Sam's thigh, hooks around his hip, and when Sam says _god_ nearly under his breath Dean looks up to find Sam staring at him like he's never seen him before.

"C'mere," Sam says, taking Dean's hand, and Dean stands up and is met immediately with another kiss, Sam's fingers tipping up his jaw. He wraps an arm around Sam's neck, holding on. Sam's dick bumps stiff and warm against his belly, and he wants—he just _wants_ , in a blood-warm surge that feels like it's sweeping over his whole body. His hand trails over Sam's hip, feeling the shift of bone and muscle, and he lets the weight of Sam's dick fill his palm, the skin so soft, and softer still where the knot would form if Dean were in heat. He moves his fingers carefully over the loose skin, an underhand grip. Sam shudders against him, his forehead tipping against Dean's, and Dean's mouth goes sloppy wet. He wants to—he wants—

Before he can drop to his knees, though, Sam's hands have gone to the boxers, still cutting into Dean's hips. Dean helps, has to, the elastic straining to get over his ass, and when they finally drop down to his feet Sam grabs his ass in a two-handed grip and drags him in close, pressing against him chest to chest. His dick presses hard into Dean's belly, but that's a distant second to the shuddery shock of Sam's thigh grazing Dean's clit. His head ducks down against Sam's shoulder, and he knows he's gripping Sam's arms too tight, but clearly Sam doesn't care—his fingers drag into Dean's crack where everything's slick and hot, and he presses a kiss against the top of Dean's head, and then he grabs Dean and bears him down to his back on the mattress.

Dean's breath goes out of his chest, his head bouncing off-center against the pillow. Sam shoves it out of the way and drops down between Dean's hastily-spread thighs—and he kisses Dean's jaw, his throat, the center of his belly, and he's heading south so fast that Dean can hardly catch up. He struggles up to his elbows when Sam's mouth smears wet over his hip, his lips dragging over the dents where the elastic was digging into his waist, and the zing of heat when Sam glances up through his hair makes Dean clench, everywhere. Sam's knuckles press gentle against his taint, drag up the bare stretch of skin up to the root of his clit, and even that. "You're gonna make me—" Dean starts, and bites his bottom lip over the rest when Sam drags his lips up the side of the shaft.

Sam's hands are so big, god—his thumb's about the size of Dean's clit, as he learns when Sam takes him in a loose grip. "Good," Sam says, lips quirking, and then he sinks his mouth all the way down to the base so that Dean's surrounded in gorgeous soft suckling heat. He could just collapse down to his back and moan the rest of the night away, but he can't, he can't turn his eyes away. The pulse of Sam's tongue feels so good he can hardly bear it—those big hands squeeze at his thighs, pushing them wider, and Dean draws his heels up the bed, hips flinching. God—it feels—and then Sam's knuckles skate down the oversensitized tight stretch from the wet pulse of his mouth to where Dean's leaking, his own wet smeared over his ass and down the backs of his thighs, and two fingers push in, just like that, a stretch so sudden Dean yelps with it and then—oh, oh god, he is coming, all of a sudden, his thighs shuddering and clamping tight around Sam's shoulders, his muscles spasming around the solid thickness of Sam's knuckles. He loses the battle with his arms, then, the muscle giving out, and Sam's tongue is—oh, oh, too sensitive now, and he reaches down with shaking fingers and tugs at Sam's hair, tries to pull him up, pull him off. Sam suckles his clit one more time, so wet-soft-hurt that Dean's lips draw back, but then he lets go, pushes his mouth against Dean's thigh and sinks his teeth in, sucking hard. It sends another shudder rocking through Dean's belly, his ass clenching up around Sam's fingers, and Sam looks up at him, slides his hand up Dean's quivering stomach.

Dean licks his lips. His heart's beating so hard he's sure Sam can feel it. He smooths Sam's hair back from his face, slips fingers along the column of his throat. Finds his shoulder, so broad and smooth, and tugs, and Sam pushes up on his hands and crawls up the bed. Body so big, familiar-but-not, muscle everywhere, and Dean puts his fingertips to the tattoo they share and lifts his head for Sam's kiss. Harder now—shove of tongue, Sam's hand rough on his jaw. Dean bites back, digs his fingers into Sam's chest, into his back, into the firm tight muscle of his ass. It's time, it's time—Sam pulls away from his mouth, shoves up Dean's thighs, and Dean grabs Sam by the neck to keep him close, grabs the comforter with his other hand, and then—the push, christ, that amazing stretch, popping Dean's eyes wide to stare up at the ceiling. Sam seats himself with a grunt and squeezes Dean's hip, slides down to cup the curve of his ass. God, the size of it—and Sam starts to move, grinding in short sharp pulses that make Dean's breath come short. He can't, he thinks—he can't, Sam's too big and his heart's going to just stop—but Sam picks his head up, kisses the curve of Dean's jaw, pushes up on one stiff arm to look down at him, and he looks—just as blown-open by it as Dean is, his eyes startled-wide, his mouth damp and bitten.

Dean pulls in a long shuddery breath, puts his thumb to Sam's lip to feel the toothmarks. Sam kisses the pad of it, and then smiles at him, and Dean smiles helplessly back, and then Sam leans down over him and kisses him on the mouth, full soft presses of his lips, his tongue, wet and shallow, their mouths shifting together so slow—and then Sam starts fucking him for real, pushing in and in on long shoving thrusts, his balls slapping against Dean's ass, his hard stomach rubbing Dean's clit against his belly. Dean's legs slip and he wraps them around Sam's hips, and that just makes the angle even better, Sam's dick pushing up inside and filling him, over and over. Even without all that, Sam's weight over him, the solid wonderful presence of his body, here with Dean—that would do it, almost. He's not in heat so Sam won't knot, can't, but oh god this is enough, the tension pulling tight inside, his stomach flinching in warning. He comes a second time with his arms wrapped around Sam's neck, breathing open into Sam's mouth, and the shudder feels like it rocks from his cervix through his muscles all the way to his thighs. Sam kisses his slack mouth, squeezes his ass, and once Dean's thighs have fallen open and nerveless he ducks his head down to Dean's shoulder and presses Dean's left leg open and flat against the bed and then hammers home, hard and selfish and gorgeous, the brutal urgent shape of his dick swelling and slipping through all of Dean's wet. Dean sucks in breath like a bellows and holds Sam's head down against his shoulder and takes it gladly, makes himself soft. The bed rocks, squeaking with Sam's efforts, and Dean closes his eyes, turns his nose in against the soft sweaty smell of Sam's hair. Finally Sam makes a soft hurt sound against his skin and his hips stutter and then—he's coming, his dick twitching as his balls unload. Dean's so wet it doesn't make a difference, he can't feel it, but Sam thrusts in again, and again, instinct making him push it deeper even if it won't make a difference. A wave of tender feeling roars through Dean's chest, no matter that he's going to be sore later. He drags his free leg up against Sam's hip, lays a hand on the heaving sweaty skin of his back. Sam shudders, and goes limp.

They lay together, like that. Sam's heavy, hot, sweat springing up all over, his skin flushed with exertion. Dean trails his fingers lightly along the muscle in his back and holds him close. Sam's barely going soft inside him, but his mouth's working so gentle at the curve of muscle where Dean's shoulder meets his neck. Dean twines a sweaty curl around one finger, tipping his head back against the mattress. Sam sets his teeth lightly against a tendon, and then kisses the spot, and then he shifts, weight lifting ever-so-slightly as he pulls his hips back, and the wet slide as he leaves is—ah, strange. Dean feels pummeled into a new shape. Sam kisses his collarbone and goes to move off, but Dean catches his arm, tugs, and Sam ends up with his weight still half-draped over Dean's side, tipping them together in the center of the bed.

Dean slides his thighs together, drawing one knee up. He's a mess. Sam kisses his shoulder while his hand slips soothingly down Dean's side, trailing questioningly over his hip. His clit's still hard, his body still lit up on the inside, and he bites his lip, lets Sam drag his thumb over the root. "Won't go soft for a while," he says, low, and doesn't know why he feels weirdly shy about it.

Sam drags in a breath so deep his whole chest heaves, and then he tugs at Dean and pulls him close, a full-body hug on their sides on the bed. His knee slides between Dean's thighs, his arm under Dean's head, and Dean closes his eyes and breathes in the sweaty smell of them both, his head tucked under Sam's chin. "I wish…" Sam starts, but he doesn't finish. Dean squeezes his side, anyway. He knows.

Questions bob at the back of his mind, unformed. Pointless. Sam worms a hand between their chests and drags two fingers down from Dean's throat to his sternum, and Dean catches his hand and holds it there. He doesn't want to say anything, doesn't want to break this bubble. Sam smells good. Dean kisses the broad swell of his pec, and gets a kiss on the top of his head in return.

Over by the table, a buzzing. Sam's phone, humming inside his jacket. Probably Bobby, calling Sam because Dean's phone is dead, and—Bobby. Dean feels himself flushing up, again, despite everything. Sam sighs, disentangling their hands, but—Dean lifts up on his elbow, putting a hand on Sam's chest to keep him still.

"No matter what happens," Dean says, and has to swallow. Stupid hormones. "No matter what happens. You're still my little brother, okay. That doesn't change. That's—everything I've got."

Sam's eyes are serious, again, his brow drawn straight. His face isn't tender, but his thumb's soft when he brushes it under the swell of Dean's lower lip. "It's the same for me," he says. Dean hardly dares to breathe. Sam's eyes hop from his mouth to meet Dean's, and whatever he sees makes the corner of his mouth turn up, brief though it is. "Always will be."

Dean's chest feels like his heart's been taken out, to lay beating and bloody on the bed between them. If anyone knows what that feels like, it's him. "Girl," he says, voice frail.

Sam sits up and kisses his mouth, soft. "Yeah," he agrees, pushing Dean's hair behind his ear, and then he swings his legs over the side of the bed.

Dean watches his shoulders lift, on a deep breath, and then he stands and walks over to the table, fishing through his jacket. He's so—beautiful. Tall, lean, healthy. He did okay, Dean realizes. If nothing else, he can be proud of this.

"Bobby's got a lead," Sam says, looking down at his phone. "Wants to know if we can be at his house by noon."

Sam turns to him, across the shadowy space of the room. Dean drinks his fill, then glances at the clock. "We will if I drive," he says, and shoves his heart back where it belongs. Time's up.


	6. + 1

Sam doesn't remember that it's his birthday until Dean pauses in the middle of kissing him, the two of them slumped into one of the library armchairs with Dean so sweet and plush and gathered up close in Sam's lap—Dean sucks in a breath, leaning back and staring surprised at Sam, and then he says, "Crap!" and scrambles backward. By the time Sam sits up, half-dazed and still not sure what's going on, Dean's already down the stairs, his socked feet thudding down to the kitchen.

When he manages to adjust his dick and follow, he finds Dean standing in front of the oven, flapping madly into the opening with a dishcloth. "Crap, crap, crap," Dean's muttering, and Sam—oh, yeah, there's a little bit of singe to the air. He didn't even know Dean was cooking something. Finally Dean grabs whatever it is out of the oven, knocks the door closed with his hip and turns and sets it on the counter, and then he props his hands on his hips and looks up at the ceiling. "Crap."

"What?" he says, coming closer, and—oh. A cake.

Nothing fancy, just one of those sheet pans. Dark chocolate, from the look and the smell, and it really is only a tiny bit charred around the edges. "You made me a cake?" he says, and then immediately feels like an idiot. Dean doesn't even like cake. They just—don't do anything for birthdays, ever.

"Tried to, you mean," Dean says, and Sam comes around the counter and drags him in close, faster than he's gone after some demons, because that wobbly tone in Dean's voice, at this time of year, is something that needs to be warded off at the pass. Dean's stiff, doesn't want to be soothed, but Sam's used to that, too. He cups a hand around the back of Dean's neck, rubs a gentle circle into the tendons there, and finally Dean sinks against his chest, sighing. "Can't believe I forgot it."

"You've been a little distracted," Sam points out, and he gets an elbow to the stomach, but it's true. Ever since Dean went off the pills in favor of the IUD, his heats have lost that muted feel and they come regular as clockwork, every twenty-four weeks. Sam's not going to pretend he doesn't look forward to it.

Dean's still looking a little wobbly, though. Hormones. "What was the frosting going to be?" Sam says. He combs his fingers through the soft sweep of Dean's bangs, tucking them back behind his ear. "Come on. I know you had something in mind."

He gets a little sulky shrug, but Dean slips an arm around his waist, anyway. "Pink buttercream," he says, finally. He sniffs. "And _Happy Birthday Jerkwad_ in yellow bubble letters."

"Touching," Sam says, solemn, and Dean elbows him again, hard enough to make him _oof_ , but it's only day two of Dean's cycle and Sam knows the best way in the world to distract him.

Easy to swivel and pick Dean up, a quick scoop under his ass, and Dean yelps but he wraps his legs around Sam's waist, anyway. His hands land startled on Sam's chest, and then Sam gets a soft punch to the shoulder. "Warn me, dude," he says, threatening, but he's so warm in Sam's arms, his body smelling so tart and ripe, it's just not very scary at all.

"That would take the fun out of it," Sam says, squeezing his ass, and Dean rolls his eyes but he leans down and kisses Sam, with a bite to Sam's lower lip. Not much of a punishment. Sam will take it, anyway.

He can't fuck Dean on the kitchen floor, because even with the malleability of heat that's been in the no column ever since Dean got carpet burns all over his back and couldn't wear a shirt for three days—so he carries Dean to their bedroom, only running into one wall along the way, and peels off his comfy tunic and shorts, and fills him up like Dean's been teasing him to do all day since he came back from his run. No need for foreplay, not that Dean wants it like this—he's ready, wet, and he wraps his legs around Sam's waist and gets his hands in Sam's hair threateningly tight and keeps his mouth close, demanding, and Sam's more than happy to give him everything he wants. He's tight, his body hot, and the smell of him is—sooner than Sam wants he can feel his balls clutching up, his thighs tightening, and then his knot swells and catches and Dean moans so loud his ears ring, but then he's coming, a slow strong pulse that catches him by surprise, every time, no matter how many years they've been doing this. Dean arches up under him, body rippling almost painful around Sam's swollen dick, and when his eyes finally slide open they're nearly black. Makes Sam's breath catch. Then Dean smiles at him, dopily satisfied, and he gets a smacking kiss on the chin, and— "You are such a dork," Sam says, panting, and Dean shrugs, his attention turned entirely inward.

Dean's hormones have control of both of them, now. Sam closes his eyes when his dick surges with another pulse of come, and then pats Dean's hip. "Come on," he says, and Dean sighs but he pushes himself up on his elbows, and lets Sam carefully tip them and shift in the bed so that he's on his back, with Dean kneeling astride his hips. Easier to wait, this way, no matter that Dean whines about—yes, right on time, Dean shivers, and Sam drags the twisted-up blanket up and over his shoulders, like a cape.

Another pulse of come, and Dean shivers for a different reason this time. He says he can feel it, during his heats, and Sam guesses he's got to believe him. He's sensitive in every way, so why not this one. No wonder he could smell the cake starting to burn.

Dean lifts up, just a tiny bit, and his body tugs threateningly around Sam's dick. Ah—it feels amazing from this end, even if Dean's face flinches. His clit's standing up, but Sam knows better than to touch it now. No matter how cheerfully drunk on sex Dean might be, Sam's gotten an actual punch to the face for messing with him when he's this sensitive. He squeezes Dean's ass, instead, the full gorgeous muscle of it too much for his hands, and then slips around to grip his hips. The skin over his hipbones is tender, soft. There's just a tiny bit more to grab than there used to be. Sam goes a little bit crazy over it, some nights, but like this all he can do is admire it, and the sweet curve where his hips dip back in to his waist.

Dean's thighs clench lightly against Sam's sides, and when Sam looks up Dean's watching him, his eyes half-lidded. "What?" Dean says.

What with not really leaving the bunker, he hasn't been bothering with his usual dark eyeliner, his hair loose and unstyled. Sam trails his fingers down Dean's soft still-flat chest, lays his hand flat on his belly, on that low soft curve. He squeezes his eyes shut for one more pulse, and that one feels like—that's it, the last one, and now it's just waiting. Still a little time to laze around in bed, though. "Just thinking," he says, tucking his other hand behind his head. "Pretty good birthday."

Dean snorts. "You're welcome," he says. "My ovaries planned it just for you."

Sam pats Dean's belly. "Thank you," he says, to Dean's navel. Dean shakes his head, but he's smiling. Sam rubs gentle circles on the soft skin. Nothing's happening—nothing can, Sam has read every single speck of information the internet has to offer about how halman IUDs work, he knows that for sure—but no matter what his brain knows, there's still a stupid low-down instinct that tells him he's done his job. Makes him want to bear Dean back to the bed and loom over him, protect him from the world. Like Dean can't quite capably kick the ass of the world, if he wanted to. Like Dean hasn't done it before.

His hand is caught, stilled. He was quiet for too long, and Dean's head tilts. Sam twists his wrist and catches Dean's hand, squeezes it, and then pulls the blanket a little better around Dean's shoulders. "I still want my jerkwad cake," he says. "Frosting too."

Dean shifts his knees, his weight settling more firmly into Sam's lap. "Guess I could cut off the sides," he says, with a shrug. "It can't be any worse than that cake you made for my fourteenth birthday."

Sam grimaces, remembering. "You're never going to let that go, are you."

"Who in their right mind puts the candles on before it goes into the oven?" Dean says, as exasperated as he was back then when Sam sobbingly explained how the fire started. He leans down carefully and kisses Sam, just like he did back then, though Sam likes this kiss a little better—and, below, his dick finally slides free, soft enough and Dean's body loosened up enough that they can untie. Dean sighs, disappointed as always, but he also groans with relief when he can finally stretch his legs out.

Sam slides his hands down Dean's sides, grips just under the sweet curve of his ass. "Shower?" he says. Dean can't leak, this week, but he's flushed and a little sweaty, and Sam won't turn down the opportunity to suck his clit with his body all clean and soapy, if he can get it. This week's for vacation, after all. Might as well take advantage.

Dean shakes his head, though, and leaves one more smacking kiss against Sam's mouth. "Nope," he says, pushing up. He raises his eyebrows, grinning. "Frosting time."

Even if it is his birthday, Sam gets stuck with stirring up the yellow frosting, while Dean does some kind of surgery to the cake, sliding around the kitchen in just his shorts and socks. Dean slathers on the pink frosting and then pulls out a piping bag—when did they even get a piping bag—and messily scrawls out the yellow cursive, and then he swivels the tray around with a flourish so Sam can read it.

 _Happy Birthday Dorkwad_ it says, wobbly on the Barbie-pink frosting. "What happened to jerkwad?" Sam says.

Dean licks a smear of yellow frosting off his thumb, and shrugs. "I don't have to explain my process to you, dorkwad," he says, shrugging. He's not smiling, but his eyes are crinkled up at the corners.

They eat the cake leaning over the counter, two forks and no plates. It's pretty good. Sam smears pink frosting onto Dean's cheek, and he ends up with some in his hair, and Dean keeps bumping his hip against Sam's, and cracking bad jokes. Together in the bunker, the world safe enough for now. Not a bad birthday, all in all.

**Author's Note:**

> [posted here on my tumblr if you'd like to reblog](http://zmediaoutlet.tumblr.com/post/178205760979/timelapse)


End file.
